Hodder nodded.
“We are beginning to recognize that we are dealing, in, many instances, with a disease,” Mr. Bentley went on. “I am far from saying that it cannot be cured, but sometimes we are forced to admit that the cure is not within our power, Mr. Hodder.”
Two thoughts struck the rector simultaneously, the revelation of what might be called a modern enlightenment in one of Mr. Bentley's age, an indication of uninterrupted growth, of the sense of continued youth which had impressed him from the beginning; and, secondly, an intimation from the use of the plural pronoun we, of an association of workers (informal, undoubtedly) behind Mr. Bentley. While he was engaged in these speculations the door opened.
“Heah's Miss Sally, Marse Ho'ace,” said Sam.
“Good morning, Sally,” said Mr. Bentley, rising from the table with his customary courtesy, “I'm glad you came in. Let me introduce Mr. Hodder, of St. John's.”
Miss Grover had capability written all over her. She was a young woman of thirty, slim to spareness, simply dressed in a shirtwaist and a dark blue skirt; alert, so distinctly American in type as to give a suggestion of the Indian. Her quick, deep-set eyes searched Hodder's face as she jerked his hand; but her greeting was cordial, and, matter-of-fact. She stimulated curiosity.
“Well, Sally, what's the news?” Mr. Bentley asked.
“Gratz, the cabinet-maker, was on the rampage again, Mr. Bentley. His wife was here yesterday when I got home from work, and I went over with her. He was in a beastly state, and all the niggers and children in the neighbourhood, including his own, around the shop. Fusel oil, labelled whiskey,” she explained, succinctly.
“What did you do?”
“Took the bottle away from him,” said Miss Grower. The simplicity of this method, Holder thought, was undeniable. “Stayed there until he came to. Then I reckon I scared him some.”